


Picnic

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lads have a picnic.  Doyle gets up to mischief.  There are ants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picnic

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this to cheer myself up

Title, author: Picnic, by Allie  
genre: humor, mush  
thanks: to [](http://inlovewithboth.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithboth**](http://inlovewithboth.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Summary: The lads have a picnic. Doyle gets up to mischief. There are ants.

 **Picnic**

by Allie

The picnic had seemed such a nice idea at the time: pack up sandwiches, get some sun, have a nice restful day at the park. (Bodie had added something about “bird-watching.”)

Instead they’d both fallen asleep after scoffing down some food, too hungry and tired after a long week burning too many candles at both ends. They had slept away this lovely Sunday afternoon in the sunshine.

Doyle blinked sleepily awake, from the bad dream he’d been having. Something was digging into his hip, and something else in his side. He rolled away, wincing, revealing his gun. The thing in his side was Bodie’s elbow. Bodie was still asleep, splayed out, mouth open. He looked younger, innocent while asleep.

It would be difficult to keep an affectionate smile off his face. Fortunately, he didn’t need to: no-one was watching. Doyle reached out and gently mussed Bodie’s short, dark hair. He couldn’t have been so soppy if Bodie were awake. He’d be embarrassed.

Bodie stirred under his hand, his lips pursing slightly, and settled down again to sleep.

Doyle reached for the thermos and drank some warm tea. He debated dribbling some on Bodie’s forehead to waken him—or dipping his fingers in, that old schoolboy trick. Ah, but no—let him sleep. He looked like a big kid.

Something moved on Doyle’s leg and he brushed it away automatically. He looked down. Ants. A thrifty and diligent stream of them trooped across the plaid blanket carrying crumbs, or on their way to fetch crumbs. Bodie’s fault, he decided; messy eater.

Doyle started to shoo the ants away—then hesitated. They were in an awfully straight line—nearly to where Bodie’s hand now lay stretched out. Hm...only have to shift a few crumbs and...

He began to shift. Here a bit of biscuit, a scrap of ham that had somehow escaped from a sandwich, and from Bodie. He dropped them in artful bits up to and over Bodie’s hand. He was very careful to drop them lightly, so as not to waken him. And—there! The last, sticky bit from a bun went on the middle of the back of Bodie’s hand.

Doyle grinned and drew back. I shall call this piece of art, Man and Ants, he decided, making a posh face and laughing to himself. Then he settled back to watch, well out of the way of the ants. He settled his chin in his hands and observed.

At first the ants didn’t catch on, but shortly they were trooping further along the crumb path towards Bodie’s hand, and onto it. They climbed the thumb; they scaled knuckles. They reached a triumphant bun!

Bodie, walked upon by little feet, twitched in his sleep. A furrow appeared between his brows. He twitched.

Carrying bits of bun bigger than their heads, the ants began the return trip down the hand.

Bodie raised his hand in his sleep, shaking ants and crumbs off. He brushed at it with his other hand, sending the rest flying. He mumbled something under his breath, coming half awake.

“I shall call it Nature’s Alarm Clock,” said Doyle, grinning. He bent and held a leaf in front of one anxious, running ant who had lost her crumb and was at sixes and sevens.

After a moment of nerves for the ant, during which Doyle held the leaf very still, she climbed aboard and he ferried her away, off the blanket, away from the sleeping giant, and onto the grass.

He felt someone watching him, and looked up. Bodie’s sleepy eyes regarded him. “’Lo mate,” said Bodie. Even his mouth looked sleepy and relaxed.

“’Lo,” said Doyle. He ferried another ant to safety and gave Bodie a smile.

The sleepy man shifted a little. “What’re you so cheerful about?”

“Invented something.”

“Oh yeah. What?” Bodie shifted, putting a hand under his head and looking interested. He was waking up a bit.

Doyle grinned. “A new sort of alarm clock.”

“You going to patent it? Make a million quid?” He looked even more interested. “Quit the business—hire me for your chauffer?”

Doyle snorted. “Yeah, with your driving! No, I don’t think it’s that sort of invention.”

“Well, what then? C’mon, don’t keep me in suspenders. Don’t I tell you everything?”

“Sometimes you won’t stop.”

Bodie made a face.

Doyle ignored that expression and ferried another ant. This one had managed to retain her bun fragment. Bodie was still watching him. Bodie jerked his chin at Doyle. “C’mon. Spill, mate.”

Doyle looked up at him from under smiling brows. “Nature’s alarm clock.”

Bodie snorted, and flopped back on his back, pillowing his head on his arms. “That all? That’s easy—just drink a lot of water before you go to sleep.”

“Or.” Doyle pinched a fragment of bun up and dropped it on Bodie’s elbow.

“What...?” He shifted and stared at his elbow, and brushed the crumb away. “Get off.”

“You put crumbs on people’s hands, mate. Lead the ants to them.”

Bodie’s eyes widened. “That’s—I wasn’t dreaming! There was something crawling on me!”

“Regular genius, you are.”

Bodie shoved him in the shoulder. “Just wait till you fall asleep sometime, mate! I’ll invent something for you!”

He sat up, brushed the fallen leaves from his hair. “I’ve had enough bloody nature. Ready for a pint and-or the cinema?”

“Anything good playing?” Doyle rose and began to gather the picnic things.

“Probably a horror film about giant ants,” muttered Bodie.

“Probably,” agreed Doyle. “Starring a lazy picnicker who falls asleep after gorging himself—”

Bodie threw a bun at him.

Doyle tried to duck, but it landed—and stuck—in his hair.

Bodie’s turn to laugh.

And Doyle’s turn to lunge at him, bun in hand, danger in his eyes.

And the next day, Doyle fell asleep in his car, very unwisely, and woke up with an ink moustache and spectacles drawn round his eyes.

  
<<>>


End file.
